I Know You Better
by Affable as Ever
Summary: "Leave them off, sweetheart, your body's old news to me," he raises his glass at me, a kind of cheers or salute, I return the gesture and wriggle free of my tangled pants. I sit only in my shirt and underwear, but neither of us really cares.
1. What's Become of Katniss Everdeen

I have memorized his smell. I don't know when I did it, but I have. I can pick it anywhere; on the air, notice the way it soaks into my clothing, smell it on him, his house and his own clothes.

And it's a comfort to me, it's familiar, it's one of the only scents that keeps me grounded and even makes me feel safe.

He smells of sweat, of man, of alcohol and of the festering hatred for himself, the Capitol and more likely than not, me.

Why he allows me here, night after night, I'll never know. I've never asked and I've never wanted to. Maybe we're just better this way, I won't demand he sober up and become a role model like everyone else seems to, he can drink all he wants.

He's got reason to, the things he's seen and done, been forced to watch and been forced to do, I can understand why he drinks and I'd never stop him unless it became a threat to his life.

Of course, I have stopped him once, and he thanked me the next morning as I nursed him through his horrendous hangover. He won't demand love or niceties or manners from me, not like Peeta does, or my 'friends' do. He demands nothing from me but what I already give; just my presence, tolerating and tolerable.

I don't even bother knocking anymore, he knows I'm the only one who will turn up on his doorstep at 8o'clock at night, and he doesn't care by that time anyway. Because this is his drinking time, you see, of course he's usually buzzed during the day; tipsy on good days and a in a drunken stupor, a pathetic excuse for a Victor on the bad days.

Or so I've been told. I don't pay attention; to me he's just the same. No better no worse, he just is. And that's completely fine with me.

We're so alike, Haymitch and I. We get it, we get each other, our minds work the same way; devious, malicious, calculating. It's effortless now; we've become this way, like we're in our own Games. But we're living them every day of our lives.

We're almost toxic to the people of the recreated District 12; our aura sends shockwaves of unease through the remaining villagers, that's probably why we don't venture out much, only when it's necessary.

Peeta, however, is a God-sent angel, he's so sweet and pure, the closest thing we have to beauty in this fucked up remnants of our lives these days.

Then there's me, without Haymitch and without Peeta's influence.

Alone I am not the sweet girl, not the girl on fire anymore, not the fiancé, the mother-to-be, the Tribute, I'm not even a sister anymore, now that Prim's gone. And when my so-called mother moved away to 'console herself' I stopped being a daughter too.

I'm most definitely not the Mockingjay either, not now that Coin is in charge, my usefulness eventually ran its course, just like I knew it would. After the rebellion, the overthrowing of Snow, life was supposed to be better.

Everyone was so naive; we killed Snow only to put an even worse person in his place. To stop the death, to finally put a stopped in it all, let children be children, feed the hungry, shelter the homeless. But you know what? Nothing's changed. The Hunger Games are still going, but they only happen every two years. Because that's how lucky we are, according to Coin and her team of dogs she calls politicians.

If only Cinna could see how far his girl on fire had fallen. And in some ways I'm grateful he's not here, seeing the disappointment in those gold-rimmed eyes would be too much.

Truthfully, I'm not sure what I am anymore. Yes, I am Katniss Everdeen, but what else am I? Some people call me their Victor. I'm not a Victor, I'm just a girl who, loved her sister too much, didn't love a boy enough, fucked off a President and was dragged into political chaos then tossed aside when I was no longer needed.

What I am, what I _really_ am, is a scarred body, a pretty face and a broken, murderous, ruthless, tortured youth who, like her mentor before her, has found comfort in near lethal concoctions of alcohol.

This is what has become of me.

I used to hunt every day, keep busy, keep myself well so Peeta would continue to love me. I know it won't last, he is too sweet, to willing and I am... Too much of everything all at once, too much of everything bad and not enough of everything good.

I am volatile, a danger, and soon I will burn up Peeta's love, wear it out until he won't be able to look at me any longer.

That day, I can feel inside, is fast approaching. But he hasn't realized yet, he doesn't hated me yet. So, he paints and bakes and lives on and loves me, and I drink, smuggle morphling from the hospital and scream into the woods and hide everything from him and, worst of all, find solace with Haymitch and at the bottom of a glass bottle.

* * *

**Authors Note:**

So, hi there! I don't even know what this is really, I'm just angsting everywhere and I ship Hayniss so hard.  
So yes, there will be sex scenes in basically every chapter, just so you know.  
Enjoy!


	2. I Told Him How, I'll Show You How

I am sprawled out on his living room floor, the carpet a comfort under my body as I warm myself by the fire. Morphling dancing in my veins and a burning white liquid from a burgundy bottle making my body thrum with a tingling happiness.

I'd come around dusk, trudging through the snow with a lovely syringe in my pocket. The snow dampened my trousers, seeped into my socks and made my hair dripping wet by the time I reached the new Victors Village.

I had contemplated going to my own home to shoot up, but I could see the light from Haymitch's fire burning and it looked so much more inviting than my own dark house. I basked in the heat from the fire, my damp trousers dry with my socks over the back of a dining chair and my jacket is hanging on a hook by the door. Haymitch's house isn't that untidy, it's actually quite nice. Better than the old one in old District 12. It was a 'gift' from Coin, a house for Peeta, Haymitch and I, for helping with the rebellion. Ours, of course, were built nicer than the rest of the District, like all the Victors villages are.

I still find it disgusting that they hold us to a higher standard, we are not special. We're just more ravaged versions of humans.

I inject the last bit of morphling into my arm and wiggle my toes at the feeling; a bit of pain from the jab and a lot of wonderment from the drug. I don't know what it is about morphling, but when it's in my body everything, every sight, every scent, every texture is just so wonderful. Like the carpeted floor I'm laying on, my bare legs slowly rub against the furry, slightly scratchy carpet and I roll to my side and inhale the smell of what I can assume is alcohol soaked into the carpet and smoky ash from the nearby fire.

I had tugged my hair out of its wet braid when I arrived, and once dried by the heat of the fire I sit up, intending on re-braiding it, though I could feel the drug making everything a little hazy and so much more colourful. It kind of reminds me of the orange bubbles and the trackerjacker venom, but it's much less painful and much more wonderful.

As I begin to comb my fingers through my damp, wavy hair when a shirtless Haymitch stumbles out of his room, obviously already halfway drunk. He gives me a quizzical look that only says; _"why didn't you wake me?" _We like to drink together, we don't even have to talk, though we often do, it seems to keep us sedated. I shrug at him, supressing a giggle at the tingle that rolls down my spine and into my legs. Which are bare, because… I'm not wearing pants.

_Why am I not wearing pants?_

My brow creases, and then I remember, I took them off because they were wet and I know they are probably dry now. My face flushes red and I pull myself up, wobbling a bit because it feels like the room is spinning, and grab my pants from the chair. They are dry, I can see Haymitch watching me as he pours himself a drink and I know I should feel more self conscious than I am, but then again, being my mentor through two Games he's probably seen me naked anyway.

Especially after the rebellion when they were forced to tend to all my battle wounds, but I try to pull my trousers on anyway.

Unsuccessfully.

I must have had more morphling than I usually do, because I fall over with my feet tangled in the fabric of my pants.

I frown at them and Haymitch laughs gruffly, handing me a glass as he falls onto the couch not far from where I'm sprawled on the ground.

"Leave them off, sweetheart, your body's old news to me," he raises his glass at me, a kind of cheers or salute, I return the gesture and wriggle free of my tangled pants. I sit only in my shirt and underwear, but neither of us really cares.

I kick my pants away from the fire and grin at him, knocking back the alcohol in my glass. I give Haymitch a goofy smile and he raises his eyebrow, he knows, of course, because he always knows; "morphling?"

I nod, placing down the empty glass and brandishing the empty syringe at him with a sly smile, "it's even better than sex, you know." I don't know why I said that, in all honesty, but it's true.

I don't know why people seem to assume I've never had sex; I did, I mean I _do_, with Peeta. Quite often actually, and even once with Gale before he moved away. But yes, morphling gives me a better feeling than sex, than being loved and even better than being drunk. Haymitch scoffs at me; "then you've never had a good lay, sweetheart."

He fills his glass and offers me the bottle; I creep forward on all fours; not full confident in my walking abilities just yet, and grab it out of his hands, lifting it to my lips. I have no need for a glass, and we usually fall into this practice, drinking from the same bottle, we don't need glasses. But we always start out with one.

The bitterly sweet taste is one of my, well our, favourite drinks, and it rolls on my tongue, just adding to the shroud of ecstasy that engulfs me every time I shoot up and mix it with alcohol.

"Why do you say that?" I ask, handing the bottle back to him, sitting on my knees in front of him as I pull my hair up into a messy bun. I'm not coherent enough to braid it like I usually do; I'll do it in the morning when my hangover is gone.

He's got his bare feet up on the couch, lounging back as he refills his glass and waits a moment to reply, "because, I used to shoot up more often than you, but it was never as good as sex."

Maybe it's the morphling and bittersweet intoxication in my veins, but Haymitch suddenly looks much more appealing to me than he used to.

I'm silent as I find myself wondering what it would be like to have sex with Haymitch, if his scarred hands would treat me rough or gentle. If he would dominate me, treat me like his own personal sex toy or if he'd want me to take advantage of him.

Okay, so maybe I've thought about this before; Haymitch taking me, bending me forward over this couch we so often sit on, and calling me his sweetheart as he slams into me. I bite down on my lip and grab the bottle from his hands, moving backwards to sit down with my knees bent upwards. I'm supporting myself with one hand as I sip at the liquid, trying to ignore the way the morphling tingles have travelled down into my lower abdomen and how the heat that I'm feeling isn't just from the fire anymore.

"Well," I say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel, "maybe you were just having sex with the right person, and I had sex with the wrong people." I lay back, placing the bottle beside my head. An image of Haymitch palming my breasts and biting my nipples flashes in my mind and I slowly, discretely rub my thighs together.

"How many people have you fucked, sweetheart? I always thought you were so virtuous, Lover Boy came to me looking for advice to get you in bed." I don't look at him, but continue to rub my thighs together slowly.

"What did you tell him?" basically, I just want to hear him describe what he told Peeta to do to me, because Peeta isn't actually that bad in bed, he's kind of amazing actually. The room is silent but for the crackling of the fire, so I take a peek at Haymitch, and find him staring at me intently, "nothing, now, bring that bottle back here. If you're not going to drink it, I will."  
I sit up and pout, deciding that I like morphling-Katniss better than sober-Katniss, she's much more fun that usual.

"No, I'm going to drink it and you're going to tell me what you told Peeta."

He laughs at me, "not going to happen, I'll let you think that Lover Boy is the entire cause for your orgasms." I remember the first time he said this to me, I flushed so deeply red that for a week Haymitch would call me scarlet and I would blush all over again. Then again, I was seventeen at the time, and four years have passed now. Nothing he could say will faze me anymore; even discussing my orgasms doesn't bother me.

I can't help but wonder what it would take to bring Haymitch to an orgasm, how he would taste if I could coax him into exploding in my mouth, or how it would feel for it to be him who sucks my clit as he slides his fingers inside me. I actually have to stop myself from letting out a moan at these thoughts, what if it was Haymitch who suggested Peeta to do that to me?

I lick my lips and move closer to him, crawling tipsily again on all fours, "but what if I don't want it to be just him?" my voice is all husky and raw and I like it.

He arches an eyebrow at me again, "I could guess from the noises I've heard you making that he does his job well."

I shrug and arch back, and I know I'm thrusting my breasts up against the shirt but I don't care, I grasp the bottle and take a deep swig, the morphling has receded into a pleasant buzzing feeling now and the tingles, I know, are now entirely from what I am imagining Haymitch doing to me. "He does do a good job, I just want to know what part you played in that."

He reaches for the bottle, because I'm in arms reach now, but I pull away and his fingers end up slightly brushing my chest, this time I visibly shudder and he can tell.  
Instead of commenting, he sags back, exhaling loudly, "you're seriously not going to give up that bottle until I tell you, are you sweetheart?"

I shake my head with a large grin, I know it's blackmail, but it's working. I honestly don't understand this obsession with wanting to hear Haymitch describe what he told Peeta to do to me, I put it down to the morphling and the alcohol, but I don't really care what the reason is. I just want to hear him.

"Fine, what do you want to know?"

"What you told him to do to me," I say bluntly, "and I'll give you your bottle back, but only after you give me what I want."

He runs a hand over his face; "I haven't had nearly enough booze for this, sweetheart." His eyes linger longingly at the bottle, and I smirk and wrap my lips around it, drawing a long swig of the liquid, "now that's just being mean."

With a small laugh, I jump up onto the arm of the couch, placing my legs either side of his as I look down onto him with a cheeky, morphling-Katniss smile. Taking another sip from the bottle, I murmur; "try."

He lets out another sigh, and I can see him trying to decide what to say; "I told him to seduce you." I cock my head, a pleased smile on my face, "go on," I dangle the bottle in his face and lick my lips, it's a good taste and I wonder if that's what Haymitch tastes like.

He looks a little stricken, and I wonder what it would take to make him ease up, to relax, "really?"

I nod, I want to hear more. He's silent for a few long moments, "I told him that he should start off treating you gentle, undress you slowly," he wasn't looking at me, but over my shoulder, "but then I said, 'you know she's got some bite in her, so you should treat her a little rough, hold her down while you kiss her, bite her neck and leave marks,' Lover Boy wasn't to keen on doing that though," this I know, Peeta never treats me rough, he always allows me full control.

Sometimes I love it, sometimes I don't. The thought of being in someone else's control makes the flesh between my legs pulsate with need.

"I wish he'd done that," I mumble, wanting to rub my thighs together for the slightest hint of friction, but my feet are firmly planted either side of Haymitch's calves as he speaks. I see a smirk on his face, and I know he heard me.

Trust Haymitch to know that I like to be dominated, maybe it's because he's the same. "And then I told him that he should suck on your tits, scrape his teeth over your nipples because I bet you'd like that," now he's looking at me, and I can feel the heat all over my body, and I can see that there is bulge growing in his pants.

Maybe he knows that this is turning me on, actually, to hell with 'maybe,' he _knows _this is getting me off. I stare back, waiting for more, because I'm imagining it's him doing this to me.

"I told him to tease you, to make you want to beg for it. All a part of making you relinquish control, sweetheart," he says with a smirk, and now his eyes are travelling down my body to where my legs are parted. True, the shirt I am wearing is a little bigger than usual, so it hangs down to the tops of my thighs, but I know he had a clear view of my material covered womanhood.

There's a light in his eyes that tells me he is enjoying this, making me needy and hot. But I know that he doesn't expect me to act on it, so I take another sip from the bottle and then place it on the carpet, sliding down so I straddle his lower thighs. I can see the shock in his eyes, I relish it and throw him a devilish smile.

"Tease me how?" I demand, placing my hands higher on his thighs, "because he's never made me beg." I can see his hands twitching and I wonder if he wants to touch me. I wish he would, I want to know what its like to have _his_ hands all over me, rough and needy and just as fucked up as me.

Haymitch looks back up at my face, blinking soberly (because now he _is_ sober), "then he's not a good student."

I lick my lips, my mind still fixated on the things he's said, wishing he'd have the nerve to do it to me, "maybe you're not a good teacher," I say slyly, letting my hands drift upwards to dance across the very noticeable bulge and he groans, "maybe you should do more research."

I think it's these words that make him snap, because he suddenly has a gleam in his eye that wasn't there before, he knows what I want from him; "I haven't finished yet, sweetheart," his voice is low and gravelly, and I quiver a bit. His hands grasp my hips and drag me forward, my centre pressing against his covered erection, I bite my lip to hold back a whimper; "then keep going"

His hands are heavy as they slide down my exposed thighs, "I told him that he'd have to make you wet, make you desperate for him, before he was allowed to do anything fun;" his hand is suddenly cupping my crotch, I gasp at the contact and he actually _growls_, "and then I told him take off your panties, actually, I told him to rip them off, but I know he wouldn't do that," I shake my head because I can't form the words to answer, Peeta would never do something like that, but Haymitch knows.

"But, sweetheart," he says low and harshly, "I would," and I have to bite back another moan as his large hands rip away my flimsy cotton panties, I shouldn't find it attractive, but I do. His power and aggression are the most attractive thing I've seen yet, no one offers me a fight like he does.

Cool air rushes against my wetness, and I fight to keep my hips from canting downwards in search of friction. My mouth opens to ask for him to touch me, because he knows I want it, but he's still talking; "I told him to slide his fingers along your pussy," he does this, and stares at my face as he does so, just to watch me moan, "and play with your clit, to circle it slowly," my hands are flat on his chest, supporting myself because I've fallen forward a little as his hands torture me blissfully.

Little broken moans escape my lips, and I hear him ask me if I want to know more, I nod vehemently because I can't speak when his hands are on me.

"I told him to push two fingers inside you, quickly, because I know you like it like that, sweetheart. You like it a little rough," I gasp and push my hips down as his fingers enter me and the bastard is right, I like it.

There's a sting of pain, of being stretched so suddenly, but it only adds fuel to my arousal, my head falls back and my nails dig into his chest. I don't know what type of sound I'm making now, it might have been his name that I moaned out.

Haymitch sits up, pressing his bare chest to my clothed one. I whimper because I want his hands to move, but he doesn't. His mouth is hot at my ear, "I told him that you'd want to be fucked hard, that you'd want to be made to scream. That you want someone to make you cum again and again," my head falls forward onto his shoulder and I gasp out; "keep going."

He begins to move his fingers inside me and I make a wanton sound in the back of my throat, "I told him to finger you slowly, to rub his thumb against your clit. Hard," my lips find his neck and I'm biting down to stop from crying out his name as I grind down on his hand.

His hand comes down swiftly on my ass and I actually let out a deep, vicious growl because it makes me even wetter than before. "I told him you'd like to be spanked, sweetheart," he does it again, moan and bite at his neck again.

I swear I'm on the verge of exploding, maybe he can tell or maybe he just knows me too well because he holds my hip with his free hand as the hand between my legs moves faster.

I press myself down onto him, my nails digging into his shoulder as I ride his fingers with abandon, "I told him to give it to you fast and hard at the end," he growls, and his voice comes out kind of breathless.

I let out a whine, because I'm so close, "and to give you a little dose of pain at the end because I know you're kinky," and then his teeth are biting down on my collarbone and cry out his name as I climax.

I'm still shuddering, reeling from the intensity of my orgasm when he slides his fingers out of my body, but free arm is still around my body holding me close. Probably because I'm panting and shuddering, I notice I've left bruises on his neck and scratches on his shoulders.

I wonder what marks I've been left with. "So, tell me, was I bad teacher or was he a bad student?"

I leave my face in the crook of his neck, mostly because I'm too exhausted to move, and partially because I kind of like it here, "he must have been a bad student," I mumble with a laugh.

He shakes his head, seemingly content with me straddling him for the time being, "he's not all bad, I just know you better."


	3. At His Mercy

Half an hour later, I'm wandering around in the lounge room dressed only in one of his shirts, it's much longer than mine and covers up everything, including the pink hand-prints on my backside.

I'm not sure why I haven't left yet, because I know I want to leave. Okay, that's a flat out lie, I want to stay and continue the night, and yes it's because I just like being with him, in general, but part of me can't bear to face him right now.

Not after what I did. I mean, who the hell in their right mind would seduce their former mentor? A man twice my age and and someone I should revere, not have feelings for. However carnal those feelings may be.

My hair has tumbled out of its bun, and bits are falling all over my face and down my neck. Flavia would never let me cut my hair, _ever_, and maybe I don't want to cut it either.

I remember when Haymitch said that he preferred my hair down, and maybe that's why I have only ever trimmed it since my 17th birthday. Or maybe not.

Haymitch is in the bathroom, and I'm so completely stone cold sober now I don't know what the hell I was thinking. That's actually another lie; I knew _exactly _what I was thinking. But the reality of it, the aftermath is the one thing I don't know how to handle.

I finish combing the few tangles out of my hair and bend down and pick up my ripped panties from the floor; tossing them into the fire.

I throw the empty morphling syringe into the fire too and just stand there a moment, staring into the crackling flames.

I was once this; the fire, the passion, the untameable Girl on Fire. I'm colder now, even as the warm light flickers across the walls. I'm not that anymore, I'm a smouldering ember of what I used to be and it's a hard reality to face. Maybe that's what happened to Haymitch, he became a shell of himself like I am.

I twist the base of the shirt in my hands and try and tell myself that it was a one time, drug and alcohol induced moment, but I know deep down that it wasn't it. I had wanted him for so long. I couldn't help it. He was the only one who ever challenged me, who ever both fought with me and against me.

His power and aggression going headlong against mine was a turn on and I couldn't help but crave something that intense.

"Bloody hell, sweetheart," I hear Haymitch say from the bathroom, "you left some pretty damn good marks on me."

A smile touches my lips because I know this, I saw the bite marks and the scratch marks before. I marked him as mine, but he can explain away that though, of course.

I can't explain the bruises and bites all over my skin because everyone knows that Peeta would never do that.

His footsteps are thudding in this direction but I can't bring myself to turn around and face him. His scent engulfs me and my knees are weak, I don't know how to act around him now but I know I just want to crash into him and let his anger and depression and instability catch fire with mine.

And I don't even care if I get burned.

"Sweetheart?" his voice is right behind me, and I look over my shoulder. A sober Haymitch is something I'm not used to, I don't know how to handle it and I can't meet his eyes, so I turn back towards the flames.

"Don't tell me you're getting all shy on me now, girly," he chides gently and reaches to brush the hair off my neck, pulling it off my neck and I swear I can feel sparks flying.

"Looks like you've got some new battle wounds." My hand reaches up self consciously to touch the smooth skin on my neck and shoulder where he's bitten me.

The skin feels hot and I'm almost pleased that I have Haymitch's marks on me. Because now I'm marked as his, and it shouldn't please me that much but it does.

"Don't," is all I can manage to say though it kills me, and I turn around with angry fire in my eyes. It's not real though, I'm not really angry with him. I don't know why I'm angry, but it's never been because of him, and it never will be.

I draw away from him and yank off his shirt, I'm standing naked before him and I don't even care, I just want to be away from him. I want to try and forget my idiocy.

I throw his shirt at his chest and grab my pants and pull them on.

My hands are shaking as I try to button them up, I bite back angry tears. I'm so frustrated at everything and I can't stand his gaze.

Because now he can see me, what I truly am; I'm scarred and ugly and broken, before he couldn't tell because I was so close and I was still covered. And now he's just another person who can look at me with pity, I don't want to be pitied.

I blame it on my coming down off the morphling, not because I now realize Haymitch and I will never be the same.

"And where do you think you're going?" he asks as I'm still fumbling with the buttons on my pants.

"Home, I'm going back home."

"You're going to run out on me, aren't you sweetheart?" the question sounds like an accusation, and I pause for a second, gazing up at him.

He holds the shirt I was just wearing and he's just staring at me with an expression that tells me he want's me to stay.

"I- well, yes, I was planning on just going away and acting like this never happened," my voice is biting, and I don't know why.

I'm grating my teeth now because I just want to leave and forget about it even though I'd like nothing more than to just stay here with him and just _be. _I look away and finish the buttons on my pants.

"No."

I jolt, looking back to his face, trying to find the joke in the serious tone, "what?"

"You're not going, sweetheart," his voice is softer now, and I don't know what to think. Like I said, a sober Haymitch is something I'm not used to, "I'm not letting you go that easily. No way in hell."

"But I-"

He reaches out and touches my arm, his eyes soft but demanding; "stay." And though I want to, at this point I know I can't, this is too wrong.

We shouldn't be doing this, not the sex or the intimacy; we shouldn't be nice to each other. We are not us if there is no fighting and bitterness involved. I may have ruined the possibility of spending nights together drinking on his couch, but I won't ruin the entire relationship.

His fight against me keeps me thriving and I can't lose that. I can't lose this one last tether to sanity.

"No," I say defiantly, picking up my shirt and yanking it down over my head, "I will not stay, I am going home."

I have my socks and shoes on and am at the door before he corners me; his large hands capturing my waist, dragging me back to him with a force that should have scared me, it didn't.

"Running away from me, are you?" he breathes against my ear, and I shudder but I can't pull away. "You should stay, because things will still be fucked up in the morning. Make it last, and we can be awkward when we get up."

His hands slide underneath the hem of my shirt, running fire across my stomach, "come on, sweetheart."

His lips are crashing down on my neck and my body is shaking with the effort to stop myself from leaning back into his touch.

Yes of course I want to stay; I would be perfectly content in just living in this ridiculous bubble of sex, seclusion, drugs and alcohol for the rest of the ruined remains of my life.

He knows that, of course he does.

I can feel his pressing erection even through our pants and I resist the urge to grind against it, he's breaking me down slowly. And I like it, I'm sick of being in control of everything.

Maybe he knows that, maybe he gets the fact that, "It's not-" I begin breathlessly, and I know my restraint is weakening.

"It's not, what? Not right?" he laughs harshly in my ear and spins me around, I'm pinned against the wall as he looks down at me, "nothing in this world is right, and you damned well know that. You know it just as much as I do."

My hands have come up to rest on his chest, he's still not wearing a shirt, I can see the scars on his chest and arms. He's just like me, scarred and broken.

And he's looking at me with a gaze that says he is going to have me, and I am going to like it.

And it's so true, but still I shake my head in defiance. Why am I fighting this? I want this more than I've wanted anything else in my life.

"Say it then, sweetheart," he growls, and I can hear the popping of the buttons on my pants. I don't fight it.

"If you don't want this, say it, tell me that you don't want me," my pants are pooled around my ankles and I'm tilting my head back as his lips and teeth scrape along my neck.

"Do you want me, sweetheart?" Haymitch's hands are so fast that I don't even register that he's done away with my shirt and my breasts are pressed against his bare chest, his skin is so hot against mine.

"I do," I groan out because I'm digging my nails into his shoulders, and he's biting down on my neck again. I can almost see his smile.

"Say it again," he growls and my back hits the wall. Hard and I hiss out loud, because I love the way he treats me.

He knows I'm not breakable. He doesn't treat me link an ornate doll, he knows I'm not a fragile flower. Haymitch pulls me up, my legs around his waist and the fabric of his trousers rub against my bare crotch.

I can't help the way my hips press back against him, "come on, Katniss. Tell me how much you want this."

I know what he wants, but he won't get it from me. He won't make me beg. I tug the back of his head roughly; pulling his mouth off my neck and I think I can hear a moan, "fuck you," I hiss with a devilish glint in my eyes.

I'm pushing him, trying to make him snap again. I so want him to snap, because either way, we're going to remember this tomorrow. It's going to be awkward tomorrow and we can't change that.

"That's not nice sweetheart," he replies and I'm staring at his lips. We haven't kissed yet, and I want to, I want to know how he tastes.

"I'm never nice," I reply with a biting tone, my hands are still in his hair and I tug him closer to my face, "so don't you be nice to me," I sink my teeth into his bottom lip and grind down again on his erection.

It isn't a kiss, but it's close.

"Yes ma'am," he mocks with a smile and then he's pulling me off the wall, his arm sweeps the bottles and glasses from the table.

I hear them shatter away from us and then I'm on my back with my legs dangling off the side of the table.

Haymitch forces my legs apart and I can feel his hot breath against my centre. I quiver, my hands seeking out his blonde hair, gripping his scalp as he begins to speak; "you know what else I told him to do? Your precious Lover Boy?"

I want to roll my hips up, _make_ him touch me, _make _him taste me, but I wait because I know the reward will be all the sweeter, and he wants to play this game again.

"Tell me," I gasp out, my chest heaving while he nips at my thighs, more marks that say I'm his.

"I told him that he should lick your pussy, sweetheart," I let out a soft groan and my hands fist in his hair, "of course, I couldn't give him too detailed instruction on that. Imagination is one thing, but the real deal is something different entirely."

He's playing with me, trying to get me to beg, and I'm so close. So damned close and he knows it. I let out a wanton cry as he breathes a cool stream of air across my wetness, "but I bet I can do it better than Lover Boy"

At this I release my death grip on his hair and force myself to look up through my heavy lidded eyes, he's smirking and I return it; "impress me, Haymitch," I breathe out, "because Peeta's very – _oh_ _God!_"

My head falls back as his tongue slowly licks up my slit, I try not to buck up into his touch but it's _so hard_ not to.

One arm pins me down, and the other is gripping my thigh so hard it hurts. Of course Haymitch knows that it only arouses me more.

I think I'm babbling his name as his tongue flicks my clit and then he begins to suck, I give a sharp yelp and then dissolve into another drawn out moan; "… please…"

He hums against me, acknowledging my plea and I can feel his fingers pressing at my entrance again, he's got me pinned to the table and I'm completely at his mercy.

I don't even care.

He's relentless as his digits push inside me, his lips sucking and nipping at my clit while his fingers piston in and out of me.

I'm shaking and my nails are scratching the surface of the table, I'm so close, but I need more. I need him, he knows though. He always bloody _knows_.

"Ha-Haymitch please," I manage to gasp out as his fingers curl upwards and brush against that spot that makes me see white. My eyes roll back into my head as I give a great shuddering moan; "_please_!"

"Please what, sweetheart?" he teases, and I miss his mouth on me.

I can't look at him because I'm too desperate to have any part of him inside me and I know he'll see it in my eyes.

His fingers are moving slower now, more deliberate. He's teasing me.

"You know damned well what," I growl out, then gasp in air as his thumb roughly pushes down on my clit, "_please!"_

He has me begging now, but I don't even care I just need him. My hands are gripping the table as he makes circles around the over-sensitive nub.

"Play nice," he chides as he continues his blissful assault on my body. He's pulling me up so I am at eye level with him, his hands still making devious circles on me and I don't know how I'm not pleading for him to take me.

There is a great tension inside me, I know what I want and I want it now.

My hands make short work of the fastenings on his pants and as soon as they drop I have my hand wrapped around his length, noting to myself that it's longer and indeed much thicker than Peeta's, "I don't play nice," I growl.

"I can see that," I just want him; his fingers, his mouth, his _cock_, I need it and he knows that. He knows too damned much about me and I hate it.

I have a brief moment of apprehension; the morning, what will it be like? But I brush it away and grab him by the back of the neck, pulling him close and staring into his Seam grey eyes, "do it."

A sparkle of glee bounces in his eyes because he's aware that I've cracked, "do what, sweetheart?" He bites off the end of the sentence in a groan as I stroke him and his hips push into my hand.

With a frustrated snarl I slam my lips against his, _our first kiss_, and I can taste myself on him.

It's all teeth, tongue and lips and biting as I remove my hand from his cock; "_fuck me, _Haymitch," I command, and I can see in his eyes that the games are over.

He is almost carnal as nudges my thighs apart further, pulls me closer to the edge of the table and I can feel his tip pressing against me, I don't know what he's waiting for.

I let out a low hum of disapproval at his lack of movement; but he bites down on my shoulder to silence me; "sorry, Katniss."

And then he pushes into me, right to the hilt and I let out a gasp, because it hurts, but I, perverted as it may be, love it. This time he doesn't know.

"Are you-" he begins lowly, I don't like this caring side of Haymitch.

"Don't," I cut him off, grinding my hips against him, "just fuck me," it was meant to sound like a command but I know it came out like a desperate plea for release, but I can't think anymore as he's silently obeyed me.

His hips roll into mine, slowly at first, then faster. Harder. All on his command, no matter what I ask for he knows that I just want him to take me the way he wants.

The high of being at his mercy sends shockwaves of pleasure through me; it only intensifies as his hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise.

I cry out again and lean back, supporting myself on the table as I try to keep myself from falling into this crushing wave of pleasure that Haymitch is giving me.

I don't want it to end; my whole body is on fire.

The table rocks beneath us, the sound of skin on skin filling the air.

His voice gently moaning my name as he releases my hip only to run that hand down my front, my soft whimpering as he begins to circle my clit again and I'm shuddering from the effort not to let myself go, not yet, I can't lose him just yet.

He's pulled me forward again, I can feel his breath on my neck as he slams into me again and I'm clawing at his back because he's hit something inside me and I'm seeing stars.

Not yet, I can't lose him just yet.

He's biting my neck, and then kissing the spots he's hurt. I'm shuddering and whimpering with every move he makes, I can't help it, he's just too… _him._

I don't want it to end yet.

"Come for me, sweetheart, I want to see you," is all he says, breathlessly, and I know I'm under his control completely now, forever, _whenever, _as my body finally shatters into a million pieces, my arms around his neck as I let out a sob at the sheer magnitude of it all.

I've never seen stars before, I've never felt the earth shake or wanted something to never end and end at the same time, but I feel it now and I feel _Haymitch_.

That's all I know and all I ever _want _to know.

I can feel myself whimpering his name into his ear as I ride this high he's given me, and not long after I can feel him swelling inside me and I know I should be afraid, what with the no protection, but I don't care.

He's gasping my name into my ear and I cling to him, and he clings to me and we come down slowly together.


	4. Fix It, Then

**Authors Note:  
**My dear lord, I went to correct all my horrible mistakes and ended up rewriting the whole damned chapter. No joke, I doubled the word count and wrote an extra 5 pages.  
So yes, this is chapter 4, but the one you read before 5th of July is the _wrong one_ and has the _wrong ending_, please read this one!  
**On with the show!**

* * *

I wake up and instantly notice many things that I'm not used to when I wake; one, I am completely engulfed by the scent of alcohol, man, sex. Two; it's the safest I've felt waking up in a long time. Three; I've slept the whole night through sober and I haven't woken up in screams of terror and last; I feel dirty and alone.

My eyes open to the surrounds of a semi-familiar room, and though my vision is hazy I know that I'm lying in Haymitch's bed. I've spent enough nights here when it's been me who decided to drink to the point of alcohol poisoning and Haymitch has seen fit to put me to bed.

It's one of his rare kind moments that it seems only in allowed to share in. I find a smile on my face before I can even register what I'm doing; surrounded by his scent I feel so calm.

Once my eyes adjust to the light I see through the crack in the blinds covering the windows I can see that it's cold outside. It's actually still snowing, though not as hard as last night, there are fingers of frost creeping across the windowpanes and I'm glad that I'm cocooned in blankets.

My head isn't pounding this morning, most likely because my hours of being awake far outweighed the alcohol I had ingested. I'm not exactly a fan of stone cold sobriety, but I don't like hangovers either.

I roll back over to my side and revel in the comfort being here gives me. The bed is empty beside me but as I stretch, my hand reaches out and brushes against the spot where he may have slept and I know he's not long risen.

The sheets are still warm from the heat of his body and though I know it's wrong, I push myself further into the covers; luxuriating in his scent for one more illicit moment.

Sighing comfortably, I feel the sensation of smooth sheets sliding on my naked skin and my fingers roughly tug in the blankets in closer to my body.

That's when it hits me.

The memories like a blast of frigid water jolting me awake; it's all a muddled blend of moaning, pleading and roughness, but I know why I'm naked in his bed now.

And I know why I need to leave, immediately.

I throw back the covers, jerked into hyper-drive by the previous nights memories, but pause for a moment to look down at my battered body. I'm littered with ugly, wiry scars that spatter across my torso, sides, top of my left thigh and more.

These are what make me hideous to all except Peeta, I don't know why he still maintains that I'm beautiful. Of course besides these scars, there are bruises and bite marks reminiscent of the night we'd spent together. My eyes look over these marks and I don't mind them so much, in fact I decide I like the way they contrast my skin

These will be easy to hide, but I shudder at the thought of what's on my neck and shoulders, I resist the urge to touch the skin as I swing my legs out of the bed. The cold air is an invisible assault to my warm body.

Haymitch is in the shower; I can hear it from his room and I decide this is my cue to leave, why would I stay? There is nothing left for me to stay for anyway, our night is over and it's time to let it go.

In a matter of minutes I have retrieved my clothes from the lounge room and have fully dressed myself, I find myself wondering if he's taking this extra time in the shower because he _wants _me to leave.

I decide that it's plausible enough but I listen keenly for the sound of the shower turning off anyway. I really don't want to see him now, I know that he already regrets what's happened and I don't need to see that in his eyes.

I leave my hair loose and messy because I don't have time to braid it at the moment. I'm not worried about what people will think, it's not unusual for me to pull myself out of his house at all hours of the morning.

My hand is on the door handle when I stop and turn back, finding a scrap of paper and a pen, my hand hovers over the paper; a million sentences going through my brain; "I'm sorry", "I want it to happen again", "come and see me again."

I decide that nothing is suitable and so I simply scrawl a note to him that consists entirely of one word; "thank-you."

There's so much more that I want to say to him, there's so much more behind that simple "_thank-you_" that just can't explain so I leave the note on the table, unsigned, and slip out just as I hear the shower turn off.

I hurry back home, the sun is high and cold in the winter sky but there are still people are about. I can feel the looks at the back of my head; people wondering why I am leaving Haymitch's house looking like I do.

I don't care, it's a common occurrence for me, and nothing can be said that hasn't been said before. I keep my head down and let the hair fall over my exposed neck; no one needs to see those love bites.

Back home, which really is only a two-minute walk from Haymitch's, I close the door and lean against the cold wood for a moment. Only in the silence and solitude of my room do I let memories wash over me; I can't shake the feeling of his hands on me, his voice in my ear… I can't stop thinking about it.

Actually, I can't stop thinking about him. About Haymitch Abernathy, my Hunger Games mentor.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the memories as I set to work igniting a fire in the cold fireplace, my house is silent and bitter. I find myself missing Haymitch around me, so much so that I begin to yearn for his simple presence.

I grit my teeth and hope that this is just temporary.

In the shower the water is warm and soothing and set about washing the memories away from my skin. Soon I can't help the memories of Haymitch, and my body begins to thrum with need for him again.

I remember him, the taste of his mouth, the prickle of his unshaven face, the ferocity of how he took me on the table. The way we had moved to the couch and how he bent me over and slid into me without warning; how good it felt, how good _he'd _felt.

My eyes slide shut and I let my hands drift down my torso, because yes, just thinking about him has made me wet and it's him that I imagine as I slide two fingers inside me. I bite my lip as my head falls back and I hold back a groan.

It's him that I'm thinking about as I try to imitate the pace at which his fingers had moved inside me. And although I can't quite get it right just thinking about him makes my body race towards the finish.

My legs are shaking as I add a third finger and finally, it's his name I call as I pinch my nipple roughly and tumble into another wave of intense climax.

I stay leaning against the shower wall for a good minute or two before my eyes reopen and I'm ready to face the reality that I can't have him again. When I step out of the shower, my legs are rubbery but I'm clean, smelling of fruits but never of roses.

It's when I can't smell him on my skin anymore that my mood darkens again, I find myself lamenting this loss of him. I sigh and stand naked in front of the mirror, wiping the condensation from the surface of the glass.

Unlike usual, I just stand there and stare at myself. I don't know why Peeta says I'm beautiful, I just don't understand him. I run my hands over my scarred stomach and sides, the ropey texture of my skin repulsing me.

These scars and burns are just more reminders that I will never be good enough for Peeta's love, and that I will never be good enough to be anything more than a casual heated night for Haymitch.

It's not just the scars from the arena, or the scars from the battlefield. There are more than just the wholesome injuries from a good cause. It's the tiny dots in the crook of my arm from injecting the morphling, it's the little jagged white lines across my wrists that almost, but not quite, ended my life.

I hate everything I can see in the mirror, I don't know what's become of me in all honesty. I know appearances are only skin deep but sometimes I'd just like to feel beautiful again.

There is no one as broken and hideous as Katniss Everdeen, and I know that. I've always known that. Only now that ugliness of my mind is reflected on my skin. I shudder at the sight of myself but let my eyes continue to wander, I'm completely hairless; my legs, my arms, my underarms and my private areas. A Capitol treatment that I was forced to undergo when Snow decided that I, along with Finnick, would be the token Hunger Games Whores.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have just accepted it, but then again I had Prim and Gale and Peeta and District 12 to be strong for. It's strange how a person's morals change depending on what they have to live for.

I am repulsed by what I see; I wrap a towel around my body and feel almost relieved at not having to look at myself anymore. I use the large shirt I had been wearing and throw it over the mirror; I don't need to see it or my reflection anymore

I drop the rest of the Haymitch-scented clothes in the wash basket so I can take care of them later. I towel dry my hair as I make my way through my empty house to the kitchen.

The clock on the wall says it's 10am, but it feels much later. I'm so rested, it fees like I've been asleep for hours, maybe that's the effect Haymitch has on me; the effect of being safe and secure.

I only realize now as I'm thinking about him, that I am starving… and thirsty. Obviously my nocturnal activities have influenced that, but usually I would have been making breakfast for both Haymitch and I.

On days like this, lazy days, I would have made eggs and sausages for two and we would sit together at his table and sober up together.

This morning I make eggs and sausages for one, and I never realized how lonely I feel without him around. It's pathetic of me.

I decide to sit by the fire, because sitting at a table just reminds me more of him and what we did. And I'm scared to think about what it seems to have meant to me and how I've only just noticed he plays such a vital role in my life.

As I'm eating my breakfast, I try to keep my mind away from Haymitch by making myself focus on anything, anything that has nothing to do with him. It only takes me a few moments to realize that it's impossible.

I can't _not_ think about him, simple things remind me of him to the point when it's infuriating and causes me to feel even more hollow than I had before. Soon I'm giving up trying not to think about him when a knock at my door makes me jolt and I nearly drop my plate.

I know it's Peeta, because Haymitch never knocks and no one else ever comes to visit me anymore. I rearrange my hair around my neck, making sure to cover the small love bites along the column of my neck before calling to Peeta to come inside; I continue to eat as he enters.

"Hey Katniss," he says quietly, he's always quiet with me, "I didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast. I went to Haymitch first but he said you left at some point, I think he had a bad night because he looked pretty shaken up."

A gut-wrenching feeling of guilt rips through me, but I try to convince myself that I am not the reason for his pain. I look down to hide my face because I know that my emotions are painting a disturbingly honest picture.

I continue cutting up the sausage on my plate, "I was at his house for a bit last night, he uh- told me something interesting things you'd asked of him." I slide my eyes slowly up to his face, a small knowing smile on my lips.

Peeta abashedly runs his hands through his hair and I detect a blush, "He did? I'm- I mean, is that a bad thing?"

I smile and shake my head, Haymitch's face flashes in my mind, and I look back down to my plate; "no, Peeta, it's not. The advice he gave you seems to have come in handy," I know its cruel of me to do this to him, and I can almost picture his face right now; red, blushing and completely startled.

I sigh, patting the carpeted floor beside me; "come and sit by me if you want, I'll make you some breakfast if you haven't already eaten." As he sits by me at the fire, I wiggle my bare toes against my carpet; it's the same as Haymitch's and I bite my lip.

I try to make myself believe that the more time I spend with Peeta the easier it will be to stop putting emphasis on what happened with Haymitch. Peeta kisses my cheek, lingering, and he's so soft my heart aches, "no thanks, Katniss, I know how your cooking tastes."

His gentle poke at my average cooking skills pulls a smile from my sullen face, and I lean into him a little but the words slip unbidden from my lips; "Haymitch likes my cooking, actually."

I flinch at my own words, horrified that I continue to bring him up but Peeta simply shrugs good naturedly, "I suppose he's always been a bit crazy, right?"

I nod, and then put my empty plate on the ground beside me, pulling away from him slightly because I can feel the telltale pressure in my chest and I know all the emotions are creeping up on me again.

I hate these days, when everything is too much, it's like a hammering downpour of everything that has gone wrong just comes crashing down around me.

Peeta picks up the plate and takes it to the sink and while his back is turned I pull my knee's up to my chest, biting on my hand as a try to hold back tears that seem like acid building behind my eyes.

All I want is to be right, but I am not.

I feel wrong, I feel wrong that _this_, right now, with Peeta, feels wrong. There is so much wrong where there should be right in my life; Prim, Gale, Rue, The Games, The Rebellion… all of it ending wrong when it should have ended right.

I learned long ago the there are no fairytales in this world; that we live in the world where children die, where politicians lie, where families betray families and friends betray friends.

This world, the one I feel like I'm drowning in, is drenched in blood and tears and the torrential force of thousands of broken hearts.

I know that nothing will be perfect, I've accepted that but I'd like to just be _right _for once. Right for the boy with the bread, because Peeta loves me and we are together in a way. I know he wants to marry me, and I know that I want to want to say yes so we can try and be normal.

But I'm not, and never will be.

I'm biting down on my hand so hard that I taste blood, and when Peeta turns back around he's at my side in a moment; "Katniss, please, let go."

He pries my hand from my teeth and presses his sleeve to the bite mark, I wince. And he's so sweet and grounded and everything I'm not, he's everything I wish I was and everything I wish he wasn't.

This _thing _with Haymitch has opened up everything I hate about myself, I feel like I'm betraying all that is good in my life, Peeta is so good and gentle. I am not, but I want to be.

I only realize that I've broken down into tears when he pulls me into his body; he's warm and strong, he smells like the bakery and summer. He only does this when I'm hurting, but if he knew why then I doubt that he'd want to be around me, let alone comfort me, but I fall into his chest anyway and cling to him.

I need someone; I need human contact to bring me back to life and to sanity. "I'm sorry, I had a bad night," I breathe shakily, and he's stroking my hair, whispering that everything will be okay.

It usually helps me, _he_ usually helps me, but I'm just feeling sicker and sicker about what I have done to him.

I'm shaking in his arms as he holds me close, part of me savouring having him so near to me but the other part is still aching for something that he can't give me.

"Nightmares?" he asks after my tears subside, but I have to shake my head, what happened wasn't the nightmare; the aftermath is.

"No, a dream that I thought – that was so much better than reality, it hurts to be away from it," he flinches and I can see that he's wondering if he was in the 'dream.' I wonder what he would say if he truly knew.

It's a painful realization that there is a world outside the turmoil that Haymitch and I have found a new home inside. I could live in that world forever and not give a fuck about anyone else but I keep having to remember that I have a home with Peeta too. A home in the real world where I must function properly.

Peeta's lips press against my shoulder, whispering that I will be okay and I realize that I've already been too vulnerable today. I lean into him once more before getting up abruptly.

He rises with me wordlessly, more than used to my strange mood swings and I walk to the door, I don't know if he's following me but I know that if I leave the house he will, simply out of instinct. I want to be away from my house in case Haymitch see's fit to visit me, and bring all these emotions back to boiling point. I couldn't handle it.

The odds are _not _in my favour; then again, they never have been. I open the door and there he is, his hand poised to knock and I know the expression on my face mirror the emotions on his face.

"Haymitch," I breathe out and realize that my voice is shaking, my grip on the handle increases so much that my hand begins to bleed again. He's never had this effect on me before; I just want to throw myself at him and find safety in his embrace. But I don't I stay strong and try to keep my gaze level.

"Sweetheart," he responds with a smile, he's got a scarf on. I know why but I don't understand, he has nothing to be ashamed of; he could explain everything away and no one would question him.

My hand flies up of its own accord and I rearrange my hair to make sure it covers his marks, he watches me with knowing eyes. "Peeta's here," it's automatic, and I then feel stupid because Haymitch sent him over.

"This I know, lover boy came looking for his girl, and seeing as you'd disappeared I assumed you'd fled back to your own house," he says softly, but there is a touch of hurt in his voice. A gust of air washes his scent over me and I remember again how it felt to be with him, I clench my jaw.

"I didn't mean to run," I immediately respond, stepping closer to keep this conversation between us, "I just- it was morning and-"

He holds up his hand to stop me, and I think I actually see a spark of anger in his eyes; "I get it, my usefulness ran out."

This hurts me, more than it should because he obviously doesn't know how he's effected me. But when I open my mouth to respond, he's pushing past me and is on to Peeta; "Lover Boy!" they shake hands and I stand brokenly at the door.

I watch them converse and it kills me, it's like we're playing our own personal joke on Peeta. While they talk I slip out of the door, I don't even bother closing it, and head for the nearest patch of woods. The new District 12 doesn't have much woodland area for me to take refuge in, and it's almost suffocating.

There is one place, though, that I like to go to and I run there as fast as I can. As I run all I can think of is how I want so much to be right, and for everything around me to be right. I want to not crave Haymitch after just one night, I want to be in love with Peeta and be normal.

I'm not, I'm just- broken and I need someone who's broken, so we can be ruined together. Peeta's pulled his life back together, he's won, he's beaten the games and I haven't.

I'll never escape the games. I'll always be alone. But maybe I already know that. I lean back against a petrified tree; it's branches twisted and ugly, frozen in place.

Exactly like me. I slide down and sit on the gnarled roots of the living-dead tree. I find myself taking a deep, steadying breath and closing my eyes. Footsteps echo on the damp, snowy ground and my instincts tell me who it is.

"Did you seriously think I wouldn't follow you," a voice says from behind me, "sweetheart?"

I snort, "I hoped you wouldn't." That's a lie; of course I wanted him to follow me, I want him to _want _to follow me.

"Oh, really?" his voice is a harsher than usual and it makes my heart clench a little in my chest, "but don't get any ideas, Lover Boy sent me." I clench my eyes tighter and ball my fists at these words.

"Stop that," I say softly, but firmly, "stop making it out that I am some heartless person who never cares about anyone."

"Aren't you?"

I open my mouth to answer, and a choked half-sob comes from my throat, then I press my palms into my eyes to stop the angry tears again.

"No, I am not." I can't believe he's getting to me, my own mentor is breaking me down and I'm letting him.

Because he's right; I am heartless, and I don't care about anyone. If I cared I wouldn't have betrayed Peeta, or lead him on in the first place. Of course he knows this, doesn't he know everything?

"Are you sure about that, sweetheart?" he's moved, the direction of his voice has changed but I don't look up, I'm still rubbing my eyes to push back the pain.

"No."

I expect a reply but the silence is so loud then that I don't know how to break it, it feels like I'm being suffocated and I finally open my eyes. He's looking at me and I feel something throb inside my chest. Like an twinge in my heart.

"It doesn't have to be like this, you know," is all he says, he's drumming his fingers soundlessly on his legs.

"Oh, yeah?" I say sadly but sarcastically, "please, do tell me how to make it better."

Haymitch shrugs, "well, start with being normal for once, and maybe go from there."

I start at these words, how the hell does he expect me to be normal? Nothing about me is. But I concede that I am acting worse than usual and that he may have a point about my behaviour, "I know. I _know_ that I'm being difficult, I just-"

"Feel bad? Guilty? Feel like the whole world is wrong and you can't handle it?"

I hold back a gasp, barely, and my eyes go straight to his face. I don't understand how he can look at me and know this, it's almost painful that he just _knows_, "how do you know that?"

He laughs, but it's mirthless, and sits on a log across from me and his breath is just white clouds of condensation around his freshly shaven face, "it's _me_, sweetheart, I know you better than you know yourself."

I leap to my feet, enraged by the fact that he is so smug, "then you tell me why I feel so… why this is so _fucked _up!" I shout recklessly.

"Because you felt happy, and it wasn't with Lover Boy," Haymitch's voice is quiet as he explains the obvious, "and we planned your love, you played the part for so long. And you know that he loves you, but you're like me; still in the Games." He pauses, almost for emphasis as he stares at me, "you still think you need to be in love with him to survive."

I try to breathe, but there's a lump in my throat, "fix it, then."

He shakes his head and I stalk towards him, standing in front of his legs so I can stare straight down at him, "if you can fix me, then do it!" I feel myself breaking down under his unwavering gaze, I reach out to strike him.

He captures my injured hand in his, holding it firm as he kisses it, "I wish you wouldn't hurt yourself," Haymitch's voice is like a rough whisper, "I remember when I found you after Prim died-"

I jerk my hand away and slap him, I'm not angry at his mentioning of Prim, I'm angry that he's made me this way. Angry that he's brought all my weaknesses back to the surface and that he won't even help me fix it. He's unlocked so many things I'd been desperately trying to keep at bay, why did he have to know me so well?

"Don't you dare!" I snarl at him, but he's unfazed, still looking up at me with wide, if bloodshot, grey eyes.

"Do what?"

"I've told you before! Don't be nice to me, don't _do_ that! I need you to be mean, you can't be just another person to… to _pity_ me!" he doesn't even answer; he simply grabs my waist and pulls me down to straddle his lap.

"What are you-?"

He stares at me with enough intensity to stop me from talking, "I will never pity you, _ever_." Our eyes are level now and I can feel how much he's keeping at bay, I find myself wondering how much I have missed, how much I've overlooked.

Yes, this is effecting me but I never stopped to think if what I did hurt him. Perhaps it did, maybe Haymitch isn't as unwavering as I had thought; "I'm sorry."

He just sighs and drops his hands from my waist but allows me to stay seated on him, "shouldn't you be saying 'thank-you'?" And now I realize I have hurt him, I understand it.

I don't know how I could have possibly overlooked it, because we are the same. The things that hurt me will hurt him too.

"I- please, don't do that," I mumble, suddenly ashamed, "I didn't mean it like that, I just- thought that-"

"What?" he demands, but he's not at all abrasive this time, I'm shaking now. I'd forgotten my hair was wet and that I didn't put on a jacket, I press my hands against him for warmth and he doesn't pull away.

"It was morning so I just guessed that-"

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, "ah, I forgot that my usefulness had run it's course, right?"

"No!" I burst out, and he jumps beneath me, "no, that's not it. I figured, because it was morning and you'd want me gone. To, you know, avoid the awkwardness."

I can't meet his eyes because I feel pathetic now, so weak in his eyes, I've basically told him that I left because I was afraid he didn't want me. I am disgusted by myself in a whole new way as I wait for him to reply.

The wind rushes through the trees and I'm still not meeting his eyes; "you're serious, aren't you?"

My tremors increase, the dampness of my hair creating a wet patch on my shirt but I make myself pull away from his warmth and back away; "of course I'm serious, you idiot!" I gasp, "as if I wanted you to have to ask me to leave, that'd be… a new low for me and I just- I couldn't do it."

I see a flash of anger in his eyes and he's risen to his feet, bearing down on me "I wasn't going to kick you out, Katniss!"

"Then what did you plan to do when I woke up, Haymitch?" I demand bitterly, jabbing my finger at his chest, "sneak out of your own house?"

"I would have made you stay!" he roars back and I jolt, both from the sound and the way I could swear his grey eyes are watering, "I would have… asked you to stay with me."

I hear the mockingjays in the trees singing softly, because I can't find words to reply, I don't know if he's lying or if he's telling the truth and part of me is too scared to believe him either way.

"But you wouldn't have stayed," Haymitch says softly, like he's accepted it. It's almost like he thinks that _he's_the one who's unworthy, he's so wrong.

I can't help but grab him by the hand; we're both so immoral and broken, and pull him close; "I would have," I admit, and I'm still not looking at him.

He shakes his head at me, because I know he doesn't believe me, I wouldn't believe me if I was in his position. There is such a shift in the balance now, something more is going on between us, and if I know it, he does too.

He licks his lips I think he's about to speak, but I cut him off by throwing my arms around his neck, I don't want to hear his protests. Capturing his gaze, I hold it there; I'm still angry, hurt and confused, I'm still fractured and ragged but I know what I think when I look at him, what I've always thought really.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to open my mouth and let the sound come out; my true feelings are one thing I can't let escape.

_You're broken, and I need you. And I'm heartless but I still need you. I know Peeta loves me and I know this will hurt him, but it doesn't have to go that far. It doesn't have to be anything, I don't have to be anything to you if you don't want me. But just let you want me, I need your instability, your wit, your anger and… I just need you and I want you to kiss me because I just __**need you**_.

I can't say any of that, I'm not that open with anyone nor would I ever let my true feelings out. Part of me wishes my eyes could speak, but I know he doesn't have to hear what I'm thinking because he understands and he pulls me close, enveloping me in his warmth as our lips slide together.

Despite my endless claims that I don't want him to be nice, the kiss is tender and searing and I don't care, I can't help it, I crave him in a way that's unhealthy. I want to have him closer, never let him go. There's a mutual need as we hold each other, it's almost similar to the way we clung to each other last night.

He folds me into his chest, and I know he can feel my shivering and it's like he's trying to give me his own warmth, this is so unlike us but I'm okay with that. _"Don't let me go, okay?" _I say it into his chest, half-hoping that he can't hear me.

There's a long silence, and all I can hear is his heart beating, then, "never, sweetheart," these words fill me with more warmth and contentment than anything I've heard before.

Puling away slightly, we stare at each other. This time the silence is comforting; his large hands around my waist and my hand touching his cheek with tenderness I didn't know I was capable of.

There is an uncharacteristically soft smile on both our lips but when Haymitch brushes the hair off my neck and laughs at the marks that are there, the tender moment is gone. And that's fine, we are never going to be all sweet or all tender. If we were, we wouldn't be us.

He runs his hand over the bruises, I shiver at his touch and he grins; "mine are better, you know."

I raise my eyebrows at him and instantly reach up, pullinng his scarf off with a quick flick of my wrist, and he's right. My marks are better than his, I tap the patchy marks and give a cheeky smile, "sorry about that."

I don't know why, but when he leans down and kisses me sweetly, I like the tenderness and I embrace it, "I'm proud," he whispers quietly.

I give him a pointed look, "why the scarf then?" it's still in my other hand, and I honestly don't intend on giving it back. I like being able to see my marks on him.

"Come on, sweetheart, can't I at least try and be fashionable?"

It's so ridiculous that I can't help but laugh, "no, you really can't." He acts as though I've mortally wounded him, and I'm still laughing. He's always had a funny side, we both have, it just rarely gets seen. His laugh brings a bit of sunlight into the winter.

"Fine then, you take it," he finally says after I stop chuckling at him, "although I'd rather you didn't have to hide my handiwork, I promise I'll be less... _permanent_next time." He loops the scarf around my neck I stare up at him, and I must have looked shocked, questioning what he just said.

_Next time_, he wants a next time. I should have known this, but it still come as a surprise. A pleasant one, and I feel a smile split my face before I can stop it, "oh really?"

"Oh, yes, there will be a next time," his voice is a low growl and I bite my lip, because I'm so close to kissing him again; it's like I'm addicted to his taste. I crave him.

"A next time for what?" it's Peeta, and suddenly our delusion of seclusion and tortured happiness is shattered. I jump and Haymitch must note the panic strewn across my face because he steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. I frown at his openness, and hope he's not intending to do anything to hurt Peeta.

I would never want to do something that would hurt the boy who saved my life, no matter what the situation.

"For me to get back my scarf, apparently miss Girl on Fire thinks she owns it now." Haymitch's voice is dripping with sarcasm and dislike for general human life and I understand him now.

I shrug off his hand, smiling a secret, gentle at him before I turn away to face Peeta. He's framed by an odd ray of cold sunlight that has fought it's way through the clouds, and he looks beautiful. He always does though, and I guess its one of the perks of escaping the mental trauma of the Games.

"It looks better on me anyway," I toss over my shoulder at Haymitch as Peeta approaches me with his half-sunshine smile and gently untucks my hair from under the scarf. I quiver because I should feel sparks, but I barely feel a tingle when he touches my skin.

God, why am I so wrong? Why is all of this _wrong_?

A painful chill runs down my spine because I can't decide if being away from Haymitch or doing this to Peeta is the thing that I'm calling wrong. But I smile at him and squeeze his hand gently when he laces our fingers together, I'll admit, there is nothing bad about being with Peeta.

"Definitely looks better on you," his smile is so sweet and genuine that my stomach churns, and I find myself leaning into him as I often do. He's safe, Peeta is always safe, but I like that, part of me needs his safety.

I cock my eyebrow at Haymitch as Peeta makes his decision; "see?"

"But I think he's got more use for it than you," Peeta laughs as he motions to the marks along Haymitch's neck, "you have some new... uh… battle wounds there, Haymitch." _Battle wounds_, that's what Haymitch had called my bites yesterday, and we accidentally share a smile, but look away almost immediately.

"Don't you worry, Lover Boy, she was totally worth every bit of pain these things caused me." I see his eyes flick down to our joined hands and I think he flinches, I can't be sure though.

It's when Peeta kisses my temple and replies: "I know exactly what you mean," that I see him grimace and in a matter of minutes he's excused himself and has gone to buy more alcohol.

I watch him go and feel a dull ache in my stomach, all I know now is that I've never been more confused in my life. My attention moves back to Peeta as he slides his hand from mine, I feel cold all over.

Peeta leans down and plucks the last flower from the base of my living-dead tree, he weaves it into my hair and then kisses my forehead softly. I sigh and move closer to him, sliding my hands inside his jacket and around his middle. Some part of me will always be bound to him, the Katniss that survived the first games, the one who belonged to Peeta body and soul, that Katniss still loves him.

She's buried very deep though, almost caged inside the bars of death, destruction, malice and narcotics, I have a moment when I wonder if she will ever get out.

And as Peeta kisses the top of my head I wonder if I'll ever have the capacity in my fragmented heart to love like he does. Or learn how to look at someone with the same adoration as when he looks at me now.

I know the answer to that; never. I can wish all I want, but I'll never be able to do that.

Despite this, I hold his beautiful face in my cold hands because I want to, and I smile at him because he truly is wonderful.

The snow begins to fall softly around us and when he kisses me, I kiss back.

* * *

**Authors Note:  
**Hello again, and _yes_ I know it's very long. I'm sorry, but I promise I will write more sex in the next chapter. If it is Everlark or Hayniss sex, you'll never know. There might be both.  
**But there will be sex. **And that is a promise.

Just a warning also, that there will be a flashback to Katniss's suicide attempt in the next one or two chapters, watch out for that. And I'm also going through and correcting stupid mistakes in the past chapters, so have a look see if you want. I haven't changed any plot lines though.

Much love to all of you little Hunger Games pervs who are down with the Hayniss smut 3, and to everyone that's reviewed, story alerted, favourited me or the story... I just... I love you all.  
Happy Hunger Games!


	5. Stay

**Authors Note: Look, a rewrite _had_ to be done. (as of 13th August)**

* * *

I haven't spent this long away from Haymitch since the Rebellion, it's been nearly two weeks since we'd shared any time alone and I can hardly stand the loneliness. I know I hurt him when I willingly flaunted my relationship with Peeta in front of him. I don't know how to explain it to him, because each time we're alone it takes only moments before we crash together in a fiery passion.

I guess I'm not lonely in the sense that I'm lacking in company, I have Peeta, I always have Peeta. But I'm lonely because I need to be with the one person that doesn't judge me. I need to see Haymitch. I've walked past his house half a dozen times in the last few days, half hoping to chance upon his face as I walk, but nothing. Its almost as though he's watching me, making sure that he won't run into me anymore.

Peeta is a consistent comfort to me as always, but that's just the problem; Peeta is comfortable. He's too sweet, to genuine; just being with him makes me feel worthless. I can never live up to what he is. Yesterday he told me he's restarting his family's bakery and it hit me that I'm never going to amount to anything anymore. He is so full of life and beauty, he's lost more than me and still stands tall and proud.

I'm just a broken mirror that someone tried to fix; I'm still physically whole but the cracks are glaringly obvious and unrepairable. Last night I had tried to go to his house, I needed someone. I needed him, but as I looked through the door and saw him with a busy brunette straddling his lap, I realized he didn't need me.

It was that night I started to hurt myself again, because this time there was no one to tell me not to.

All day I've been trying to muddle my way through an excuse to go and see Haymitch, but nothing seems passable enough. I find myself deeply hurt by the idea that he's already moved on from me but I still yearn for the odd relationship I experienced with him. I'm so on edge now because I haven't had a drink since we were last together. And neither have I shot up. Sobriety is killing me slowly.

The problem is I can't drink with Peeta, and it's too depressing to drink alone. I haven't sunk that low just yet. As I step out of the shower, steam curling off my body, I decide to pull the shirt that was covering my mirror away. Each second I spend analyzing the flaws of my body makes my stomach churn and hot tears of self-loathing rise behind my eyes. Barely five minutes pass and I'm staunching the flow of blood from five jagged cuts in the flesh of my upper thigh; one for each Tribute I slew while in the Games. The children I killed, because I am a killer. And a liar. And hideous and unstable.

Somehow I find myself by the fire, clothed to hide the cuts because the sight repulses me and with my fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of particularly potent alcohol. I've given up, I don't care that I'm pathetic drinking alone on my living room floor. I'm My house is so quiet, not like Haymitch's. At his house there was always noise, even tiny noises that I didn't initially notice. My house is just dead inside, like me.

I'm so sick of being lonely, and of feeling like I'm a puzzle put together wrong. I need another hobby. My hands shake too much to hunt properly anymore so instead I've thrown myself completely into making my heart fall for Peeta again, fall for the boy with the bread who is so sweet to me. For the boy who used to melt my heart with a simple gaze, who I fought tooth-and-nail to get back to me.

I'd force myself back into the arena to be right for him again, deep down I know that. I have such a need to be normal; to obtain the unobtainable. To be normal doesn't even exist in my world anymore, I can pretend as much as I like but I know I'll never quite make it.

Sometimes I think that maybe, maybe it's working. Maybe I'm in love with him again and sometimes when we hold hands or kiss or make love, I can feel the feelings surging forward from deep inside. Sometimes I really think I can love him again. And other times his touch feels like nothing, his lips feel cold and smothering to me. I feel suffocated by my lack of emotions and my head begins to swim with memories of how he used to make me feel.

_Maybe I need to try harder_, I muse as I sip again at the liquid. Something about the constant burning down my throat has made my body tingle all over again and I remember the tingling feeling I'd felt when Haymitch and I first had sex. Inwardly I shudder and curse myself for allowing my thoughts to stray_. Peeta, Peeta, Peeta_. I repeat his name in my head until he consumes my mind entirely. His face brings to mind soft kisses and kind words, nights spent in safety as he shields me from my night terrors. His image makes me smile and flush and I find myself rising to my feet, knowing that I need to be near him to solidify the feelings that posses me right now.

I stumble my way to the door, stopping only to put on my boots. I have to see him. I contemplate for a moment leaving the bottle at home, but I can't bring myself to do it. I am far too fond of the drink than I'd ever care to admit, I'll ditch it before I get to Peeta's though, maybe hide it in some snow to keep it cold. I cross the threshold from my warm, nearly stifling, house and into the cold night air, closing the door softly behind me.

There isn't a breath of wind tonight, it's cold and still, the ground a glittering bed of white and there's not a footprint marring the surface. It's a slice of peace and beauty in my rough and bloody world, I take a moment to lean against my door, steadying myself as I admire the natural beauty of my scenery before my eyes flicking wildly around out of sheer habit. As always in District 12 there is no movement in the stillness of night.

I start to walk, my eyes still scanning the shadows because, honestly, I'm still partially afraid that there is a tribute or a mutt hiding in the darkness. I hear the echoing screams of the jabberjays pretending to be Prim, the gurgling of blood in Marvel's throat as he drowns in his own crimson life-force. The Games are still fresh in my mind, horrifyingly so. My drunken mind is so consumed with separating the real from the false that I am already half way towards the house when I stop. I've gone the wrong way; I'm walking towards Haymitch's house.

For a moment I just stand and stare at the house that had once been my home away from home. His windows are dark and the only light I can see is the flicker of a waning fire. Peeta told me Haymitch had been worse than usual; buying out Gregory Spark's entire stock of liquor in one week alone.

A shudder rolls through me, imagining him unconscious and alone on the floor of his living room and part of me wants to go and check to make certain he wasn't harming himself, or that he hadn't passed out. Taking a deep breath I raise my eyes to the disturbingly clear sky, stars twinkle on the inky backdrop and only a few wisps of cloud remain. The scenery spins slightly as I turn away from the dark house and towards Peeta's brightly lit one. _I can't go to his house anymore. Not alone_

On unsteady feet, I'm almost at my house again when two strong arms come around my waist and I'm yanked backwards; my back colliding with a warm chest. A soundless yelp falls from lips, but I don't struggle. I know who it is. And educated guess would have told me who it was, but it's the smell that I recognize. It's the smell of lust that's been drenched in alcohol and lit on fire.

"Lose your nerve to come and see me, sweetheart?" he breathes harshly against my ear, and I know he's been drinking just as much as I have tonight.  
"I went the wrong way, I was going to see-"  
"Loverboy, I suppose," he snorts, then his nose is buried in my hair and a slightly rough hand is running down the column of my exposed neck, I shudder against him and nod.

We stand in silence for a long time, heat radiating between us but the cold night air chills my skin. I let my eyes slide shut and allow myself to wonder if he'd been waiting for me, knowing I'd be inadvertently drawn to him. It crosses my mind to ask why he's outside, but I can't bear to break the silence.

I feel the tension building between us. His arms are still around my middle and his breath still ruffles my hair but we don't speak. This silence isn't like the ones we shared before, this one is a darker silence filled with many unanswered questions on both sides. I have another pang of pain as I recall the girl he was with last night, then anger flares inside me as he continues to speak.

"Why are you going to see him?" he says quietly, but I can't catch the tone of his voice. He still hasn't let me go and despite my anger at being jaded, I'm soundlessly enjoying the familiarity of having him near my body.

"Because it's what I'm supposed to do, remember? To survive," my voice is dripping with sarcasm and I feel Haymitch flinch against me as I use his own words against him. "Or did you forget?"

"Forget… right. You know what, sweetheart, if things were so easy to forget the world would be so much simpler. You, for example, are pretty damned hard to forget. Seeing as you had half of the Capitol drooling over you… imagine what you do to me."

"Nauseate you," I breathe out, my eyes still closed because the night-darkened expanse of the scenery is spinning and making me dizzy, "I expect."

I can hear his gruff laughter in my ear, the stench of his alcohol soaked breath ruffling my hair but I don't mind so much, I find it a strange comfort. My anger is slowly being swallowed by a sense of belonging; _could I ever belong with him?_

Of course we'd meet in a spot just like this; in the cold, in the dark, not even looking at each other, we're just like that. His hands are sliding up my ribcage and running his calloused finger under the curve of my breasts; and I'm whimpering and shuddering against him. "Far from it, aside from when you ran out on me when I was in the shower. That made me feel pretty sick," I realize that we have that in common.

"Well," I slur, "I can sympathize." Haymitch laughs again, but softer this time and he begins to pull me down the alley between his house and the fence of my house. As my back hits the cold brick of the wall, I feel his lips brush up my neck and I know that we're about to explode again.

Haymitch's voice rough in my ear. "You aren't allowed to leave unless I say so," he growls, hands running down my sides and rubbing circles on my waist, "understand?"  
His breath is thick with the stench of alcohol and it mingles with mine but my knees quiver and I nod. _I give up, I surrender to you, Haymitch. Just for now, I surrender._ I lean up to him but he turns his mouth away, I try not to feel hurt again as I settle with pressing my lips up his neck.

"Say it," he commands drunkenly as his hands find their way disturbingly quickly into my shirt and I hear the ripping of the fabric. I don't care, because… well, because it's him and because it's me and because I miss him so much that my whole body is shaking from a mixture of relief and desire.

How long ago had I inadvertently given myself into his power? My body aches for his simple touch and I know I should be cold, but I'm not. Haymitch's proximity to me makes my body warmer than it's ever been, my blood is almost boiling in my veins from such a slight touch.

My head tilts back as his thumbs brush against my nipples and I let out a whimper. How did I even think that we could stay away from each other? How could I believe that I could force myself to avoid him? I must have been insane. I probably still am.

My hands push between us, down to the buckle of his belt and I begin to pull hastily at the fastenings. I recall that he's asked something of me, and after a moment of fuzzy uncertainty I reply; "what do you want me to say?"

He just growls and his hands are fast as my pants are around my ankles in the snow. There is another rip in the darkness and I know that in his drunken haze he's torn my underwear from my body. Again. And I couldn't care less I shudder while the cold air assaults my bare flesh.

I'm so ready for him, wet from even his slightest touch on my skin. Apparently I've been craving Haymitch for so long now, both consciously and subconsciously and anything could set me off. I don't care that we're outside, in the freezing night and we could easily be spotted or heard; I need him in the wost kind of way.

I try to slide my hand into his pants but he pushes them away; "I need you," he growls and I detect a touch of desperation in his voice. Haymitch hoists me up against the wall, his fingers stroking my wetness and I wriggle against him, half annoyed and half pleased. I know he likes to tease, he likes to hear me beg, but I don't want to this time. I can't handle the waiting.

I feel him shift, moving me up higher on the wall and the ragged rock rubs cruelly against the thin cloth of my shirt. His hand roughly cups my ass, holding me against him firmly as he rubs the tip of his cock between my folds until I'm trying to thrust down onto him. Haymitch won't let me though; "I need you," he snarls, "for so damned long I've needed you and you just fucking _left-_"

"Then have me," I cut him off in a breathy whisper partially because I can't handle hearing what he's saying anymore. His reply is another growl and he positions himself against my entrance. I suck in a sharp breath because, fuck, I've missed this and then I throw my head back and bite down on my lip as he buries himself mercilessly inside my body.

He doesn't wait for me to adjust like he did the first time, then again, this time I don't want him to, he drives into the wall with powerful thrusts and I cling to him, my nails digging into his shoulder through whatever shirt he is wearing. The alley is filled with echoes of our skin colliding and our moans.

My mind is a fractured string of thoughts that centre around how much I need Haymitch and how he had always been and will always be the most real thing in my life. But, as per usual, my mind dissolves into nothingness as he pounds into my body and hits place inside me that always has me coming for him in moments.

I'm so close already, and it's ridiculous. I scrabble at his shoulders and I push myself down onto his cock, desperate for more friction. I can tell by the way his thrusts have become slower and deeper that he's trying to draw this out. I know he likes to feel me come first; "not after… _with_me, Haymitch," I stammer out breathlessly.

I feel his teeth scrape against my throat and I know he's heard me. There's a definite increase in his pace and the way he's pressing his body against me tells me that he's close too. I don't even care that we keep doing this without any precautions, we never have and I assume we never will.

I gasp his name as I feel the skin on my back break through my shirt from the repeated friction. I can't understand why, with him, even pain feels erotic. Haymitch bites down on my neck and I swear I'm seeing stars by the time I feel him swell and explode inside me, a millisecond later I'm crying out his name with abandon as I finally come, my whole body shuddering with the sheer magnitude of it all.

I've missed him so much, everything about him. Everything seems so much clearer now that I'm around him again.  
_Is it possible to be fucked into sobriety? _I wonder briefly as my arms curl around his neck. I feel a relax in his posture as we both slowly come down. He's pressing me against the wall harder now, holding both of us up with one hand cupping my ass and the other bracing himself against the wall. I'm sandwiched between the wall and him, but I don't care.

I'm draped over him with my legs still locked around his waist, and I'd have been contented to stay there with him inside me until we'd both recovered enough to properly walk but then I notice someone standing at the mouth of the alleyway and duck my head behind Haymitch's, stifling a screech of shock.

"Uh, Haymitch?" it's Peeta's voice. My stomach drops and I press my face into his neck, hoping that his face and the shadows will obscure me enough that Peeta won't notice. My body freezes and my heart thuds as I brace myself for his bust of rage at being betrayed by us both, I clench my eyes shut and wait. Seconds tick by and it seems like almost a lifetime before Haymitch replies.

"What, Loverboy? You're kind of intruding here," he presses me firmly against the wall and I can feel how he's trying to protect me. I whisper words of thanks into his ear. I know him well enough to know that, though on the outside he's drunk and angry at Peeta, he's actually smiling because of me on the inside.

"I… uh, sorry, I just wanted to know if you'd seen Katniss recently?" I heave a sigh of relief despite the awkwardness of our position. We haven't been found out. We're safe, I'm always safe with him. He knows that, though.

Haymitch laughs, "I haven't _seen_ her, Loverboy, but she'll turn up soon. Now, no offence, but you need to fuck off now," he kisses my shoulder where the shirt has fallen away, "because I'm busy and she's much more fun than you."

I hear Peeta mumble something and then his feet crunch on the snow as he leaves us. I exhale loudly and open my mouth to thank Haymitch again, but he pulls away from me and begins to redress. I'm on wobbly legs, naked from the waist down aside from my shoes. I'm picking up my pants; which are now soaked and dirty from being trampled by Haymitch and realize that I can't go home like this for fear of being seen.

It's almost comically sleazy to me as I pick up the dirtied pants and hold them out in the dark alley at him with a smirk, a shaft of moonlight illuminates his face and he's actially smiling at me. My heart thuds in my chest, because I've missed the idiots smile, but I try to keep the surge of pleasant emotions off my face; "you owe me new-"

He silences me with a kiss, sobriety slowly creeping up on him too as he wraps his arms around me and presses me against him. Our lips slide together with practiced ease, and I feel like my whole body is being covered in flames again. My hands fist at the front of his shirt, and though I promised myself I'd never allow my emotions or attraction get the better of me, I'm pulling him as close as I can.

After a moment he lifts my legs up around his waist again and I think he's trying for Round 2 already, but he speaks into my ear so softly that I can barely hear it; "hold on to me, sweetheart."

I wordlessly obey as he begins to walk with me wrapped around him. It takes me a moment before I realize that he's carrying me to his house, and succeeding despite his buzzed state of inebriation.

I can't help but laugh as he kicks open the door, and again as he throws me on the couch. My hand moves over the couches curves, the soft fabric causing me to reminisce of how, just a week or so earlier, I had seduced Haymitch. This is where it all began, and in my still semi-intoxicated haze, I feel emotional that I'm back here again and that he still wants me.

He unceremoniously kicks off his snow-muddied shoes and then, for reasons unknown to me, pulls off mine and tosses them haphazardly towards the door where they land with a thud, spraying the ground with spattered mud and sleet.

It occurs to me that he's putting in much more effort to make things comfortable, usually it's me that coaxes the fire to life and he lays on the couch or wanders into the kitchen to fix us drinks.

"What are you doing?" I ask him as he roughly jabs the embers of the fire with a discarded metal rod, he's still swaying when he tosses a large chunk of firewood onto the glowing mound of coals; the fire begins to hum happily to life.

He won't turn to look at me, "making you stay." From the side of his face I see the pain change the lines around his eyes, it disturbs me that I know his face so well, and he leans against the mantle over the fire. "I'm making you stay with me this time. You're not allowed to walk out on me this time. You said you would have stayed last time so I…" he stops and his hand thuds against the wood of the mantle, "I just want you to stay with me."

It briefly crosses my mind as to why I couldn't care any less about the fact that I am naked from the waist down, but I get up from his couch and move to the fireplace as the flames begin to lick up the sides of the firewood. His eyes are closed and he looks stricken, as if he's preparing for the worst. For me to walk out again.

Like he actually thinks I can. He knows I can't, he knows that I need him in my life more than I'd ever care to admit. "I'm not leaving," I say, and it's pointless because he knows I won't leave. He_ has _to know.

"Let me wake up to you, this time," he says gruffly as I take his hand in mine. Our eyes meet for a long moment and my lip quivers as his bottomless eyes sweep my face, the intimacy of this situation scares the living hell out of me, but I can't pull away.

"Stay."

He presses his lips to mine so softly that I feel a twinge in my stomach at his sweetness. I allow myself a moment, _one_ moment to be real with him. When he breaks away I pull him back for a second soft kiss, these are gestures so genuine I can't believe I'm even capable of doing it.

I take a moment to put the fire-guard in front of the flames before I pull him towards his bedroom, trying to speak with my eyes again. He knows I've never been good with words, he knows that I can't say what I want, even when I've been drinking. But I try, because he's worth that my honesty for once.

_I'm not leaving, not now, not tonight. I won't. I can't leave and you know that, you bastard._

Of course he knows that it'd kill me to run out on him again, I couldn't do it to myself or to him. He knows that I'm aware he wouldn't be able to handle it.

I see a flash of recognition in his eyes before he stumbles into his room ahead of me and wrestles himself out of his clothing. I have nothing to hide behind now except the cover of darkness, and once again I catch myself being thankful that he can't see me and be disgusted by my body.

My mind reels back suddenly to only a few hours earlier and my hand moves down to slide across the red, angry skin of my mutilated thigh. He'll be angry when he see's it, so will Peeta. They'll both be repulsed by my weakness and appearance, but the thought of Haymitch judging me hurts more than Peeta judging me. I shake off these thoughts and climb, naked, into bed with Haymitch Abernathy for the second time.

As soon as I'm close enough his arm slides under my pillow and forces me to turn inwards and rest on his chest. I wait for the anger to rise inside me, but it doesn't. Usually this is a breech of my personal space, and if it had been Peeta I wouldn't have been able to handle it, but it's _Haymitch_ and it's right.

Haymitch breathes deeply, one arm curled protectively around my form as my head finds comfort on his chest, the beating of his heart is soothing and I press a soft kiss to the scar from where some Tribute or Mutt had tried to carve it out.

A thought fills my mind, unbidden but undeniable; he's kind of beautiful. And I never let myself notice it before, but he's so goddamned beautiful because he's so broken. No one else could ever understand it, but I understand and love it. I'll never tell him though; I'll keep this piece of sap to myself.

"Stay," he whispers gruffly as I slowly slide into sleep. I feel calm tonight and for the first time in weeks I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

* * *

**Authors Note: **Yes, I added on about another thousand words but it really had to be done. I'm also working on two chapters simultaneously so you guys will probably get two chapters within a week.  
Forgive me?


	6. Don't You Ever Just Need Somebody?

"Katniss," Peeta says softly, curling my body against him, "would you ever get married?"  
The question catches me off guard and I flinch in his arms, the idea of marriage aligns itself in my mind with an anchor permanently chained to my ankle, dragging me down into darkness.

I sigh against his chest, and decide to lie because it's the only option at this point; "maybe one day, I would consider thinking about it." He makes a humming sound and it reverberates through his chest, I can only assume he's happy with my answer and I feel content that I've satiated his curiosity for the time being.

"How about children? Would you want kids?" Apparently, I have not.

My heart thuds hollowly in my chest as I think of Prim, of Rue, Foxface, Cato and all the other children that died. How could I ever want children of my own when I've taken so many innocent lives myself?

Killing them, watching them die, each time I took a life I felt a part of myself die along with it. Could someone like me even mother a child? What child would want a hollow murderess for a mother anyway?

I know Peeta yearns for children, and I can't let him down after everything he's done for me. "If the time was right, maybe I could."

He hums again and I try to force a smile, I can't, so I bury my head against his chest and try to remember what it was like to be happy.

Two weeks pass without incident, and without my seeing Haymitch. I've stopped seeing him recently, it's becoming harder and harder to get away from Peeta and more difficult to lie to his face, the pain is slowly coming out on my face so I gave up trying to get away.

I was only able to tell Haymitch quickly, with little explanation. As with each time I fled from him, It almost feels like I'm starving myself from the inside out, like I'm being drained of my vitality.

Peeta can tell, and it's both aggravating him and concerning him, he constantly asks if I'm alright or if he can help me. I'd love it if he could, if his touch could calm me and make my skin tingle, but it doesn't and it kills me.

This time, I can't wait any longer, I'm crawling out of my skin and I need to see him; touch, feel and taste him, he helps me forget it all, if only for a little while and I leave a note to tell Peeta that I've gone for a walk and don't want to be followed.

Peeta is like my shadow these days, I can rarely venture anywhere without him appearing behind me, perhaps that's the reason I haven't seen Haymitch in so long.

It's twilight when I step out of the house, out of Peeta's house, and step lightly on the melting snow; my footsteps are gentle but determined as I hurry forward to Haymitch's house.

Stepping swiftly up the steps to his house, I let myself in without hesitation and slide of my damp boots, hang my coat on the rack and look around the empty, disturbingly quiet living room and kitchen area. It's dark, the only light coming from the flickering, dying light in the fireplace and I falter a moment.

My mind begins to race as I wonder where he could possibly be, and in what condition. Several situations flash through my mind; the idea of Haymitch on his back having choked in a pool of his own vomit, or perhaps of him slipping in the shower and cracking open his head…

I shudder to think of what could await me as I head dubiously towards the bedroom, the sound that greets my ears makes my blood pound and my heart race.

There is two voices; Haymitch's and a female voice that sounds incredibly familiar, the sounds reverberate through the walls and I know these sounds and my hands ball into fists.

I clench my teeth, irrational and stupid as I realize that this actually hurts me, it shocks me to the core that he could ever be with someone aside from me. Of course, I knew he was, he's Haymitch, and obviously I know he's promiscuous.

I mean, hell, I had to help pull him out from underneath a pile of women, booze and narcotics once… so why is this such a painful blow to take?

Outraged by my own feelings, I throw open the door to the no-so-shocking sight of a dark-haired woman sitting atop Haymitch, her long locks falling down her back and her head tipped backwards, nearly feral sounds come from her pretty mouth as she rides Haymitch's cock.

My eyes narrow into slits.

His eyes meet mine and I know he feels guilty having been caught, but I don't care, I'm focused singled mindedly on the fact that there is some other woman on top of the man that should, by all means, be mine.

"Get out," I growl out, my voice low and strange to me and I swear my eyes are flashing as the women's eyes turn towards me. Her pupils are blown out, likely the result of lust and intoxication, her breasts are bigger than mine and her stomach more feminine.

She has no scars, no marks on her body that would deter a man and it makes me hate her even more, it writhes in my stomach and bile coats my tongue.

I feel betrayed and I simply want to tear apart that sickeningly perfect body so Haymitch no longer finds her attractive.

"E-excuse me?" she chokes out, I narrow my gaze and I take a step forward, teeth clenched so hard that I can barely speak.

"Get out of this house. Now."

Haymitch seems shocked, almost angry at having been interrupted, but he knows not to interrupt, he knows that once I'm on a roll, he shouldn't try to interrupt me.

The brunette scoffs at me, rolling her eyes as her narrow hips still moving up and down, riding his cock as her nails dig into Haymitch's marred chest and I take another step forward.

My bloodlust rises instinctively and I wish I could easily reach for my bow and lodge an arrow right through the disgustingly delicate veins in her neck.

She stares at me, outright, challenging me as she rolls her hips against his; the muddled moonlight shines through Haymitch's tattered curtains and glints off their naked bodies and I just want to scream.

My gaze shifts to Haymitch and I can see he's trying hard not to react as this tight-bodied woman rides him. I feel like I am about to explode and I have had enough; Haymitch is mine and I am his and that is all that matters.

I walk up to her, and she stills her movement for the first time.

"Do you mind, bitch?" she asks, as if she has the authority to speak to me in that way and all I can do is smile and shake my head before my face crumples with malice and my hand finds it's way into her hair.

I tangle my fingers roughly through her locks, which despite first appearances, is greasy and rough to the touch and yank sharply, ripping her body backwards and she cries out.

"Yes, I mind, you slut," I snarled, pulling her by her hair off the bed while she shrieks, "get off him, get out of this house and don't even dare to come back."

I am stronger than she anticipated, and I drag the screaming girl out of the door and I'm too consumed with rage to notice when Haymitch gets up and follows me out of his room with his guest.

I shove her towards the door; "he's mine, understood. And if you want to keep those perky tits attached to your chest, I'd suggest you not show your face around here ever again," I spit venomously as she hits the floor, scrambling with a tear-streaked face to grab at her coat.

"Who the hell are you?" she sputters, rubbing her face, trying to see through the tears and past the shadows filling Haymitch's living room.

I feel no pity for her, nor do I wish to pretend that I actually give a shit about this woman and I just shake my head and drag her to stand straight, pulling open the door and I push her out into the cold.

"I am his and he is mine and go the fuck home," the door slams and I turn back to see Haymitch standing naked in his doorway and I know he's heard what I said. I don't care.

He's looking at me like I am crazy, and I am as I round back on him, stalking towards his larger frame.

"Sweetheart…" he begins, but I'm having none of it as I push my palms flat against his chest and force him back into the bedroom; "don't 'sweetheart' me, Haymitch."

We collapse on to the bed and he's not trying to push me away as I unleash my anger on him, I tear open my shirt and feel the buttons fly away.

My scarf is taken care of by Haymitch, my pants on the floor and I straddle his waist.

His cock had softened when I pulled the other woman off him, but now was hard and weeping as I slide my hand up his chest to his stubbled chin, grabbing it and forcing him to look into my eyes, to see my anger and my pain so I don't have to voice it.

"You think you can fuck any other girl?" I growl lowly, my free hand circling his cock, spreading his pre-come down the shaft, twisting my wrist as my grip slides up and down him. "You think you can do it right under my nose and I won't notice? I _always_ notice."

"You weren't here," he replies simply, hand cupping my center and his finger sliding against my wet slit, bumping teasingly against my clit and I arch up, hand motion jerking on his cock, but still continuing, "I needed something. Someone."

I rock down against his fingers and he slips two fingers inside me and I gasp because it's been so long since I've felt filled.

"So you chose _her_?" I rasp, watching his face as I stroke him, teasing him and seeing the effect I have and knowing that I should be the only one to make him feel like this.

"Looks like you," he moans, thumb pressing against my clit as he fucks me with his fingers, but it's so not enough for me. "Same hair… same eyes… in the dark, she's you," his voice is so deep and gravelly I feel my body throbbing with a need too great to contain.

I need him, he is mine and I am his and I need to wipe his memory of that girl who he claims reminds him of me.

I raise myself up and his fingers, coated with my wetness, move up to touch my lips and my tongue flicks out against his fingers to taste myself and I groan because I've tasted this before; on his lips after he's had his mouth between my legs.

I suck his fingers into my mouth, tongue swirling around the digits and I envision them to be his cock.

I position his tip at my entrance and slide down, biting on his fingers sharply as I do, we both groan as my pussy contracts around his cock. I'm tighter than usual because I haven't had sex in a while and it almost hurts me but it feels so good at the same time.

I feel alive and raw, dirty and used and angry and better than I have felt in weeks.

"She's not me," I gasp out as our hips come flush together and I roll my hips his, letting out a whine at the delicious friction it give us both, "she can't _be_ me."

My blood boils in my veins as I remember the way that woman had ridden him, tried to pleasure him as I do and I dig my nails into his chest roughly, his eyes lock on to mine and I see that he never believed that he was going to replace me, he seems as desperate as I had been and almost as hysterical.

Grey eyes swim with violent emotions as his hands grasp my hips with bruising force and Haymitch flips me on to my back, and I don't care. The bed rattles as his lips crush against my own, and I can almost taste the other woman on his mouth but I can feel the way he wants me; he desires me because of the way he hates me, and the way I hate him and for the way that we light each other on fire when we're like this.

"She can't fuck you the way I do," I snarl softly, thrusting my hips against his and his hands find mine, pinning them above my head and I know I'm going to have bruises in the morning.

I buck up against him, wanting to be marked, so in some sick way every girl knows that I belong to him.

_But you don't, you belong to Peeta… remember?_

I push the niggling voice from my head, my eyes rolling back as his cock slides out of me slowly, I'm still defiant and I pant out; "you don't fuck her like you fuck me, do you?"

As if to answer me, his hips snap down and he buries himself inside me, rocking the bed as the headboard whacks against the wall.

I cry out his name and one of us is moaning low in their throat as he moves hard and slow, every nerve ending is a wire tendril that sends shockwaves through my body. It's like nothing we've ever done before, and the intensity of it startles me for a moment.

I'm being swallowed in an inferno with each thrust and I'm helpless against it as he holds my arms down.

There's no beginning nor end to us, we're just a writhing, naked being and I can feel my anger falling away, lost in the way Haymitch is making me feel.

I've been craving this for so long that I don't know what I was living on up until now. Our mouths are fused and he swallows my moans and cries as his cock slides in an out of my pussy.

I wonder if its possible to pass out from sex as I throw my head back, eyes rolling back in my head as my g-spot is struck over and over again. I try to grasp something, anything, but his grip on my wrists is too much to fight against.

I cry out as the intensity builds and I can't hold back anymore, not when it's been so long; "fuck- I can't-"

"Come for me, sweetheart," is his reply and it shatters my world, his teeth sink into my neck, intensifying the sensation as my mouth opens in a soundless scream.

Past the haze of ecstasy and the bright lights flashing behind my eyelids, I feel Haymitch's cock swell inside me and I think I'm about explode because it's all too much, I feel his body shuddering with mine and I all I can feel is Haymitch.

_I miss you._

* * *

At first, everything is darkness and the heady smell of sweat and sex. I'm warm all over, spent and electrified and I feel perfect. There's lips pressing against my temple and I can feel the rough grab of stubble on my skin.

"Never had that before," he grumbles softly and I still don't open my eyes.

"What?"

"Never had someone black out after they came," his laugh vibrates against my side, "I mean, you had me worried for a moment. But obviously 'm just too good."

I elbow him in what I assume to be his side, but don't disagree because he is the reason I am still feeling aftershocks of a long needed orgasm.

"How long?"

He makes a soft grunt, and I feel a shift in the mattress as he gets up, my eyes open and settle on his naked back; taking in the scars and burns that litter his back, thighs and even on his ass.

I decide not to ask and simply repeat my first question; "how long was I out for?"

He chuckles, "only a few minutes. You looked –" he pauses and pulls on underwear before he turns back to me with a crooked expression and he takes a deep breath, I can still see beads of sweat on his forehead, "- never mind. Are you hungry?"

With an plain face, I settle back onto the bed and crook a finger at him, beckoning him to me and for once, he obliges without a sarcastic remark. Hands either side of my head, he stares down at me and cocks an eyebrow, I tilt my chin to him and he knows what I want.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips against mine; soft, post-coital and gentle but it only lasts a moment and when he pulls a way there's a long pause and something beyond words passes between us.

It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and kiss him until the sun comes up, it makes me want to wrap my arms around his broken body and hold him against mine and fuck the consequences.

It makes me think that that I can handle it all without needing drugs or cutting or alcohol, as long as I have him. And eternity passes in a minute and I push myself up, breaking his hypnotic spell and raising myself up to his eye level.

"Cook for me? Really?" this is a first for us, ever and he nods, a smirk on his face as I slowly raise my eyebrows.

"Then yes, I am hungry."

Pulling away, he gets up and tosses me a shirt; the shirt I always wear and I actually smile and follow him into the kitchen, trying to conceal the fact that my legs actually feel unsteady.

"Where's loverboy tonight?" I try not to react.

"Not here."

He chuckles, cracking two eggs in the frying pan and I take a moment to realize how far he's come since we first met.

Today is a good day for us both, it really is and the dark shadows that are usually floating around my mind have receded for now. I feel almost happy, like a normal person and before I tell myself that I'm not normal, Haymitch breaks in; "obviously, sweet heart, but should I expect him to come riding in on his white horse to save you from the drunken mentor that fell off the stage during your reaping?"

Fighting off a shudder at the memory, I roll my eyes, "not at all, he's not that- _dedicated_."

He scoffs, and flips the eggs, even I know that what I'd said was a complete lie; Peeta would run to the edges of the Earth, fight another rebellion and rebuild the original District 12 just to make me happy.

Sighing, I find a plate somewhere amongst the dirty dishes, along with a knife and fork each. I would make a mental note to help him clean, but people come to do that for him; a perk of being 'famous.'

"Shut up," I snap as I help him serve up the food and we eat on the floor, "who was she, by the way?"

"Who was who?" he stuffs sausage and egg into his mouth and I roll my eyes at his severe lack of class, "the brunette?"

I nod once, firmly and drop my eyes down to my plate, pushing back the rage again at the thought of anyone touching Haymitch but me, apparently I'm getting possessive and I don't honestly want to know why.

"I don't know," he shrugs absently, "Megan, or Meagan… or Sue," he chuckles to himself, as if laughing at his own joke and he eats half a sausage before continuing. "I wasn't really interested in names, I just wanted someone."

He seems to be almost ashamed, or reluctant to admit it but I don't comment on it. We've both learned to not call out the other's weakness, no matter how tempting it appeared to be.

"Haven't you ever just wanted someone, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, and I tried to hide my surprise at the fact that his voice was so soft and vulnerable, "I suppose not, not with lover boy there all the time."

The bite of jealousy was so obvious that I had to stop myself from starting in shock.

"You couldn't be more wrong," I found myself replying quietly. He didn't respond and I didn't continue.

We eat in silence.

Twenty minutes later and I'm sprawling on my back, the shirt open as his lips wrap around my clit, sucking teasingly as I come with a long cry of his name.

And as Haymitch pushes his cock into me and I dig my nails into his back, Peeta is the furthest thing from my mind.


End file.
